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Ch. 1: Five for the Five Churches
(Return toArheled) Chapter ONE FIVE FOR THE FIVE CHURCHES “Honey! Forest, honey, aren’t you up yet?” his mom called up the stairs. Forest squeezed his eyes shut and a tear smarted in one. He told himself it was just the sand—why do they call it sand, he wondered, when mostly it’s yellow goo?—but he knew that wasn’t the answer. He had never felt such keen pain as when he had woken up and knew he had left his dreams again. The very thought stung another tear, and he let it fall as he closed his eyes: nobody could see it, anyway. Maybe if he dropped off right now he could find them again; the images still glowed and swam distinctly in his mind. But even as he did so he knew it was too late: the burning images faded, meshing and dying into a blended fading glow. He sighed and got heavily out of bed. Wind hissed in the leaves of the big oak outside his window, and rain pattered on the outer wall. Sitting down at the little desk Dad had made some years ago (but Dad was gone, Dad had left, and just thinking of him hurt more than leaving dreams), Forest grabbed crayons and a pen and began to draw; outlining only, he would paint over this later. Drawing did things to him, he’d noticed. When he was feeling miserable, or lonely, all he had to do was sit down and draw, and soon he would forget everything else, lost in a realm of outlines and wax streaks and colors. He was still scribbling in the leaves of the tree he’d begun two days ago, when his mom came up the stairs. “Forest, for heaven’s sake, you’re supposed to be at the bus stop in twenty minutes and you’re not even dressed! C’mon, honey, put your pens away. It’s not good for you to be spending so much time drawing.” Forest allowed himself to be hustled into the bathroom—with the right clothes, this time—but not before burying the Tree under his bed. Even Mom couldn’t be allowed to see that. She’d never see it right. Forest wasn’t sure how, but he knew. He didn’t say anything to her. '' The Tree, like a laurel but with white bark…not bark, not like other trees, but like solid white wood…. '' “Are you okay, darling?” his mom said to him. Forest gave her a short attempt at a smile; even that was an effort. He liked to remain inside his own thoughts. It was hard to say much or chatter like his mom did; sometimes he envied her that. Not always. The smile reassured his mom that yes, he was alive and yes, he knew that the outside world existed, and she didn’t push him. Forest clicked the hook-and-eye shut on the bathroom door and got dressed, always a process not unfraught with peril, for sometimes it happened. This time it came when he was looking for the toothpaste, and he sat down on the edge of the tub and became motionless, aside from the flash and glow of his eyes. '' Silver spilling from the undersides of every leaf, their oversides as dark as laurel. Smooth blossom-stems unbudding from the shining twig, flowers like trumpet-shaped roses that blazed as bright as stars… '' Mom pounded on the door, breaking the sudden gleam of memory. Forest dropped the vision and saw it dissolve into mist and nothingness as he watched dumbly. Shoving his fists into his eyes he sobbed for half a minute—softly, for he didn’t want to be heard. Pulling himself back to dull reality, he realized from how cold he was that he had been sitting on bare metal in his underwear for far too long a time. He dressed reluctantly: these were school clothes and felt like a prison uniform. Mom had tried to buy bright colors like the latest styles had, knowing Forest ordinarily liked colors. “No.” he had said decisively when Mom had wanted him to try them on. “Blue jeans and red turtleneck go great with your brown hair, honey! I know you like bright colors…” “Not for school.” He had picked out a faded pair of black jeans: almost grey, they were, and with it a dull brown shirt with a single band of grey and white across the chest. “You’ll look so—so—''pale!” Mom had exclaimed. “Like a rock in the woods or something!” but he refused to change his mind and she bought them anyway. He didn’t know how to explain it to her, but in these colors he was safe. He had felt horribly exposed last year when wearing the more colorful outfit she’d bought for him then. Almost….targeted. As if he could be seen more easily by something, or someone, whom he did not want to be seen by. Even at St. Anthony’s school he had felt this: thank heaven for school uniforms which made everyone look the same. He popped the hook and hurried downstairs. Mom had oatmeal waiting, had even added grape juice and maple syrup, though not of course as much as it needed in order to be even halfway palatable. He paused in the process of wolfing down the gorgeous gooey mess, gravely considering his mother as she bustled around packing his books. She had such strange pale-gold hair—he would need at least three pencils to produce the right shade—and her sharp pleasant face underneath it seemed to fit perfectly. She had pale blue eyes, just like his although his were brown, but there wasn’t—he frowned, fumbling for the right word. He could form things well enough in his head, but somehow when he said them they came out weird. There wasn’t—they were glittery on top, but there wasn’t—anything underneath, they had a skin of smartness and thought, and down below it was empty. Mom couldn’t understand things sometimes, he remembered. She would listen to what he said and then say something so banally beneath what he’d been saying he had to shut his mouth hard to keep it from dropping. You learned not to explain things to her. “Forest, come on, finish eating! What are you staring off into space for?” Mom had noticed his regard. A half-smile twitched across his lips. “You look so pretty today.” Mom actually went a little pink and giggled, and Forest felt secretly pleased; something he’d said actually coming across was an unfamiliar experience. “You’re such a flatterer.” she said affectionately and came over and kissed him. Forest squirmed away as usual, but half-heartedly. “Too bad your father doesn’t think so.” '' Dad. He’d been there too, beneath the Tree, and his sword glowed red as he swore upon it…or had it been Dad at all? He stood, up where the drive off the little island met the shore road, wishing miserably that he was still in St. Anthony’s. But he was 15 now and graduated from it last year, and after that it was all high school, at least for another year. “Can I drop out when I’m 16?” he’d said recently. “Forest, I really don’t see how you’re going to get a real job if you don’t have an education. You don’t want to have to dig ditches for your living, do you?” '' What if I like digging ditches, '' the retort sprang into his head, but he failed to open his mouth in time and the words trickled away as they always did, leaving him oddly satisfied as if they had actually been spoken. Imaginary debates were always so much better than saying things out loud. That way you got the satisfaction of triumph with none of the risk of retaliation, a triumph sweetened by the fact that the other person thought he’d won, and you knew better. With the other kids this was often his only defense. Delilah came up almost arm-in-arm with Julian, as usual, and they were giggling over something or other. Julian, buxom and golden-haired with pretty features, spared a glance and a “Hi, Forest” before animatedly going off again on how some guy or other had asked somebody else out. Delilah, who was taller and less plump, had a sly and almost brash beauty about her face with it’s shortish brown hair. She was saying, “(OMG)! (OMG)! That is so freakin’ awesome! So he just did it—like that?” “Yeah, just like ‘Hey, you wanna go swimming at night?’ and she’s like ‘DUH! Of course I do!’ and he says ‘In the nude?’ “ “Ooooh!” Delilah said. Forest thought she looked like she was about to eat something, hungry and gloating. He turned his eyes away and let his thoughts slip elsewhere. “So, did they go and, you know?” '' Light flowing….dew so bright it seemed almost like light liquefied…no, it was liquid, light was dripping from flower and from leaf, silver and white, hot as steam or fire, light was sap and sap was light…. '' “That’s it!” said Forest. It was so odd to hear him say anything that both girls instantly stopped talking and stared at him. “What’s it?” said Julian. “The deaf-mute speaks! The lame jump! The dead walk again!” Delilah mock-gasped, in a way that most people found rather fetching. “What’s it, Forest?” Julian persisted. “It’s IT it, of course!” Delilah crowed. “Shut up, I want to hear what IT is.” “Light evaporated.” said Forest. His plaintive, sad face was unchanged but the absent brown eyes gleamed with sudden discovery. “Oh.” said Julian. “Well, you had to ask!” Delilah sputtered, before exploding into laughter. Forest said nothing; it was doubtful he even heard them.'' '' '' Light began as liquid, but dissipated into energy'', was what he had wanted to say. He didn’t care whether he had said it or not. It didn’t matter if it was real, either, it was just so beautiful an image. He smiled secretly as he saw light falling as rain, or collecting as dew, great lakes of it, lakes edged with brilliant plants and borders of silver and wrought gold, like giant vats…. “I thought he might have had something important '' to say.” Julian was defending herself. “Light evaporates! Oh my f-- (God’s name insulted) ! That’s gonna make history!” And Delilah went off again. The bus came about then. Julian and Delilah completely forgot about Forest and minced delicately on board, making sure their tight jeans showed every curve to advantage. There were boys inside. Forest followed, looking a little disgusted. Nobody noticed him; they were so busy greeting and being rude to the two girls, who gave tit for tat as they sat down, making sure they picked a seat where they could sit together and still have boys on every side. Forest sat down in a seat on the left-hand side of the bus. He could see better from there; the first few days he had been so confused and nervous he hadn’t had a chance to notice things much. The bus was more than half full, and by the time they rounded First Bay at the northern head of the lake and descended Lake St, it was completely full. One boy had sat next to Forest, but he was too occupied in chattering to a boy across the aisle to even register Forest’s existence. They went up the road that ran past the library, and Forest looked longingly at the stonework of his church as they passed near it; the odd hammer-like decorations in the top story of the steeple lingered longest. The bus drove up Wetmore Av heading east, then turned left and went up Williams, a shady boulevard of handsome townhouses. Gilbert High crowned the rise at the end of the street, long and slab-like, at least four stories high and made of brick and glass, only somewhat obscured by the remains of this year’s leaves. A steep lawn fronted the school under old maples near the road. Atop this fields had been delved out of the hill, and a snakelike drive descended from the teachers’ parking lot. The bus did not climb this; it turned to the right, where a long slanting street came down seemingly out of the woods, and entered the best part of the whole ride. This was why Forest was sitting on the left. On that side a valley dropped between street and school, and twenty feet below ran a hurrying rocky brook. Across the brook huge walls of ancient masonry rose, sometimes almost twenty feet, lining the brook. A bridge of stone sprang across in a lovely round arch, carrying what had once been the old entrance to the Gilbert School of many years ago, when its’ namesake was still alive; but on the other side was only the high unilock wall under the new turnaround. Green bushy hemlocks enclosed the back street on the right, and under them the land rose steeply. Then the street hooked back on itself, a parking lot for student cars opening off the elbow and filling the head of the valley, and the street rose to a loop turnaround before the doors of Gilbert High. The bus stopped with the usual scream of brakes. Everyone stood up, milling more or less forward to dribble out of the doors and into the outside air. It smelled like frost up here. Forest went with the crowd, alone in a land of strange and frightening aliens, invisible to all. No one noticed him. Groups were clumping about on the broad sidewalk entrance, flanked by its’ low yews, and others were streaming in through the glass doors. Inside the echo of hubbubing teen voices filled the air, and Forest noticed again the odd smell that was distinctly Gilbert: sort of a mix of Crayola and locker room and girls’ perfume. Recess came at last. Forest headed through the churning crowds with a dexterity natural to him, slipping between people and around them. He was used to everyone’s eyes sliding right past and over him as if he didn’t exist; he was so nondescript and ordinary no one noticed him. He got to the door and headed around the back, where he could be alone. The slope of Spencer Hill came down to meet the back wing of the school building. Dark white pines arched over a narrow strip of open flat lawn between slope and brick wall, an asphalt walk running almost under the eaves. It was an eerie, isolated place, with forest on the left and empty wall on the right. Forest heard voices: others were apparently using this avenue. He rounded a corner with caution. A bunch of bigger and tougher-looking seniors were hanging out, and the taste of cigarette smoke mingled with a nasty underflavor of pot. Forest did not look right at them, walking by as softly as he could. One or two of the bigger boys glanced over at him, then off at the trees, and up at the sky, as if he was only part of the background. Relieved that one theory of his was right, Forest headed on. The avenue of green sloped sharply down as the building ended, and Forest emerged on the bus drive near the front entrance. A few couples, dark girls with legs like sticks in their thin jeans and empty-faced boys, were wandering about and trying to keep warm. A chill October wind sent yellow and brown leaves scuttering down the pavement. Forest walked around the elbow curve and along the strip of lawn beside the road, above the brook. It was a very lovely place. The clear-brown water chunnered over round stones. Tall yellow maples still clung to the rags of their brief glory. A huge wall of blue-grey stones rose across the brook, and above it was a rusty low chain-link fence, and the grey unilock wall, and the steep weedy bank above it, half-concealed by young pines. None of the kids seemed to care about this place, or even know it existed; was he the only boy in Winsted who noticed things like this, in the hollows and holes of the cityside landscape? The stones of the wall were gigantic, great bars and slabs. He came to the old stone bridge. A round arch of cut granite blocks spanned the stream, and a causeway walled by masonry crossed upon it, only to be blocked by the unilock wall and its’ grey rough precast concrete blocks. Old posts with holes in them marked a rail fence that was no longer there. The top of the bridge was bare earth with a few stones sticking out. Past it the great wall reached a corner, and several huge blocks had slipped in the distant past, leaving a cave-like gap in the wall. The masonry above it hung suspended, unwilling to fall. Forest climbed down to the stream. It filled the entire arch, but it was shallow and enough rocks stuck out of it for him to find his way right under the arch. The water shouted and echoed around him. He had to stoop, for his stepping-stones did not extend beneath the crown of the arch. That was how he came to see the letters in the stone. He hopped to another rock and teetered before gaining his balance. It was scratched, but scratched neatly and quite deep, and it had been done long ago from the moss staining the letters dark. '' On Temple Fell, on Temple Fell, '' '' Let all who enter enter well! Travel Lane felt like fidgeting, but didn’t. She was, after all, over sixteen and quite capable of sitting through mass without squirming around like a kid. Mom would have approved; if Mom was around. Dad never seemed to notice. If he did he might just give one of those goofy Daddy-loves-Travel grins and she didn’t know if she could stand that. It was bad enough at the Sign of Peace but at least he got distracted with his neighbors pretty quick and she could be left to herself again. Of course, these days the entire congregation of St. James Episcopal Church amounted to about 20 souls, more or less. If she counted herself and Dad. She glanced wearily about as they sang the Gospel Alleluia and everyone stood for the reading. When she was little she remembered there being more, but small as the church was it always had too much room for its’ worshippers. The place was plain and grey, except for the brilliancy of the stained glass windows. They were discordantly bright, like jewels, Our Lord wearing a robe of red flame and Mary a blue as glowing and pure as autumn noon, and the sky in the window glowed the same color. As a baby, they told her, she’d looked at almost nothing else. Father was reading off his sermon now. The Gospel had been about the unjust judge and how we are to keep pestering God. Travel always felt like giggling when she heard the part about the judge being afraid a little old lady might clonk him on the head if he didn’t decide in her favor. She remembered the time her dad’s cousin or something had gotten married in the Catholic church two doors down, and they had had to attend a Catholic wedding Mass in consequence; the reading for some reason had been the Unjust Judge Gospel as well, except they changed the wording. Instead of “though I fear neither God nor respect man,” they had said “though I do not fear God or respect any human being.” She had almost gotten a stich keeping her laughter quiet. Couldn’t these Catholics bear to say “man”? Father’s hoarse walrus voice, which made understanding him through the microphone a little difficult, intoned the Our Father and distracted her thoughts. She shook her head a bit. She went to church to worship God, not grumble about Catholics. The Sign of Peace, for once, was almost welcome, and she gave Dad her usual quick peck and shook hands with the two or three beaming old ladies nearby with some actual enthusiasm. In the back of the church she noticed with some surprise there was a new person in attendance. He had a youngish face but the stubble of beard on his chin made it hard to tell. Several of their worshippers left their pews and went all the way over to his to shake his hand, and with even more surprise Travel saw him respond only with a quiet bow of his head and a strange gentle smile. But now they were resuming mass again, and Travel forced herself to put away idle thoughts and actually do some praying. That was what church was for. She concentrated on the altar behind Father, who was old and had to say mass seated behind a table-like freestanding altar lower down. The real altar was backed with an icon-like fresco, gold patterns on a blue background, fringed with grey ornamented stone carving. The cross was hard to make out against the gold ovalline shapes. Ancient wood railings shut in the sanctuary, and ancient choir pews that had once held dozens of singers stood empty to the altar’s left. The great organ pipes hung upon the wall above them with that brass frame halfway up that eerily resembled a castle wall, holding them together. The two clusters of longer pipes were gilded, but the shorter ones were dull blue-grey. The sanctuary walls were painted a pale peach color. She felt her thoughts drifting again and caught herself: the priest was saying the words of consecration and she was kneeling with everyone else. The words spoken, she lost track up time and soon she was processing up to the sanctuary, up the three steps with the quaint wood gate, holding onto the railing because everyone was moving so slow. They received communion from the seated priest, then circled around his altar and back down. Travel noticed with some irritation that the stranger hadn’t received. He didn’t even seem to be kneeling. As if on cue he looked up at that exact moment and met her eyes; glancing away almost at once. For which she was glad. Those eyes were very bright, and there was something about them that….unsettled her, somehow, even in such a brief contact. After mass was over she straightened her back and marched toward him, but old Mrs. Deer got in the way and started determinedly chirping on about something or other, and by the time Travel had extricated herself he was gone. She headed out the low arched doors and into the vestibule. This had white walls and dark brown trim, with a door on the left (and some steps down) to the entry room and the front doors, thick wooden doors, double but shaped like a pointed arch, split at the apex. The church was built of stone and so the door frame was encased in carven rock. The stranger had moved less swiftly than she expected; he was only just pushing open the doors. They stuck and the stranger shoved once and then kicked it. Travel almost smiled. One of the old ladies caught up and gobbled a lengthy greeting, and Travel had to smile and respond before she could escape out the front door. The sun was out, finally. The sharp October wind had softened for a short while, and she saw the colors of the trees behind the buildings across the street shine clear, tipped almost with white. The lawn gleamed white over the dying green-brown of a dry summer. At first she was too busy squinting to see the stranger. He was on the front lawn, looking up at the tower. A brown leather coat of indescribable age was pulled close about him. He had a silvery scarf thrown around his neck, but wore no hat. Up close it was hard to say what color his dark hair was; the sun’s glare seemed to give it an auroa, almost a glow, sometimes brown and sometimes, she fancied, dark green. He wasn’t looking at her. Turning to see what he could be gazing at with such concentration, she saw only the belfry tower above her. She didn’t see anything to stare at. “The church of fieldstone.” the stranger said suddenly. Travel nodded. “Youngest of the Five Churches, and yet seeming the oldest. Even when stone is fresh-built it seems as if it had been there forever.” “It does have a lot of rust stains under the window.” said Travel; and realized with a jolt it felt as if they had merely been continuing from a previous conversation, not beginning one. “How come you didn’t shake hands?” she wanted to know. “Are you from St. Joseph’s? cause you act just like those Catholics over there. Stuffy. Not shaking your hand, I mean.” “Catholics as a rule prefer to be left alone when at Mass.” the stranger said, still studying the four gargoyles jutting from the tower’s square corners. “They’re not much with the touchy stuff.” “So you’re a Catholic, then?” she said promptly. The odd man whose age she couldn’t guess paused for such a long second Travel thought he was not going to answer. “I am on the side of the Catholics, yes.” he answered at last, adjusting his scarf. It wasn’t silver at all, she realized, but a plaid of grey, black and white that had produced the impression of silver. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she said quizzically. “From what I understand you either are one or you aren’t.” “Are the Angels Catholics?” he asked quietly. “Are the Saints Catholics?” “Well, I suppose…not exactly…” “It is quite possible to share the same foes and hold the same goals, without being IN the Church per se.” he said. “She is, after all, composed of men.” He lowered his eyes from the gargoyles at last and she got to see what they were like. They were very strange eyes, blue but darkening to amber toward the iris; it gave him a haunting, ancient sort of gaze. “Are you saying you…?” she began incredulously. “Oh, no, no, no!” he burst out in a sudden laugh. “Not quite like that. I was merely pointing out that one can be on Her side without being in Her.” “What’s your name, by the way?” she said with a sudden smile. “Since we’re having this deep discussion.” “Who stood there once, may I ask?” he said, without appearing to hear her question. She turned to follow his pointing finger. St. James was built of rounded grey-yellow fieldstones. Above the dull brown front doors on their great strap hinges the belfry tower rose, square-cornered, at the right-hand side of the church. The roof was pyramidal and roofed, like the rest of the church, with sea-green metal. The gargoyles jutted out from a carved border running horizontally around the tower, great serpentine tentacles wound like stone roots into the masonry, stemlike bodies thrusting grossly out like a man vomiting, open mouths in small ugly faces puncturing their ends: drainspouts for the gutter inside the roof parapet. One jutted from each corner. Lower down, just above the carved inset stone arch of the doors, was a small alcove of carved stone also inset into the masonry. It had a down-drooping brow pending from its’ roof. It was empty. “There? Oh, that’s been empty as long as I can remember.” Travel said. “Probably St. James. Why don’t you ask…” her voice died as she turned back to him. He was gone. The lawn around her was bright and empty. “Now that was both rude '' and'' weird.” she announced to the air. The great bells of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church clanged and pealed as the Midwinters piled out of their tan-colored, enormous van. Lara fancied them calling “Hurry, hurry” although it was ten of eight and there was no rush, but them Mom shoved Summer the baby at her and she had all her attention occupied. Summer was only a year old, and with her birth that had made a total of nine children in the Midwinter family. One of her friends, on discovering this number, had started saying in a dramatic voice “there were Nine Winters at the water’s edge below him” and then laughing his head off, which reference mystified Lara as her mom distrusted Lord of the Rings. Once he explained it, Lilac her younger sister found it hilarious and she herself endured it. Ronnie was all right, after all, even if his sense of humor was as bad as theirs. “Mom doesn’t let us watch Lord of the Rings.” Lilac explained. “Or Harry Potter. Or any of that stuff.” This had the effect of making Ronnie first die of laughter and then begin an animated fifteen-minute defense of Tolkien. Lara mounted the big granite steps at the front of the towering Gothic stone church. A sharp gust of wind made her both gasp and smile: it was beautifully cold and clear, more like winter air than mid-autumn. “Brrrr.” said Lilac, hurrying past. “Will you move it so I can get inside?” She was two years younger than Lara but looked more, being shorter. Everyone called her Lye. “Winter’s coming!” exclaimed Lara, laughing. “Can’t you feel it?” “Considering you left the fan on all night AND the window open, I’ve felt enough of it lately.” grinned Lye. The subject of interior climate was an often heated one between the two sisters, as they had to share a room. But now that Lara’s older brother was leaving for college Lara was taking over his room, a prospect at which Lye heartily rejoiced. Summer was starting to sniffle, so jogging her on her shoulder Lara opened the door and went in. The vestibule was very high and dark, with brown wood paneling everywhere and carved wood doors leading into the nave. Michael had to go to the bathroom, an enclosed room at the bottom of the great shaft inside the belfry tower. Most of this was occupied by a curving staircase to the choir loft, several stained glass windows giving onto it. Mom being sidetracked by this, Lara and Lilac were left to go up to their usual pew in the front by themselves, shepherding the others. Glancing around she noticed the usual “characters” as was her mental term for the more odd or distinct members of the congregation. There was the girl with the long straight brown hair who always walked and spoke in a regal, deliberate manner, with that funny downward inflection at the end of every sentence as if she was making a speech. Her brown dress was smoothed out as usual and she wore her perpetual soft quiet smile. There, way in the back, was Mr. Slocum, the tall man with grey hair combed roughly back and a face that somehow reminded her of beans, whose thin nasally and awfully loud voice ruined any song he partook in and was discernable even up front. The cheery old Dominican sister with glasses who could barely hear but was always asking questions. That odd man in brown, with brown leather coat and brown dress pants and a strange brown face with a four day beard he never seemed to shave off, and rather disturbing eyes. He was new here; she’d only seen him once or twice before. “Alleluia, ah-ha-ley-ay-luia; a—a—ley—luuu—ia.” '' she sang along with the rest as the organ played far overhead. She liked the 8:00 Mass best. That was the only one at which the organ played; the 10:30 and 7:00 Masses were manned by the remnants of a guitar choir from the days of the hippie 70s folk music, briefly reignited by a charismatic youth group at the end of the millennium; and even though a lot of her friends sang there that’s still what it felt like, the remains of something that shouldn’t have started and didn’t belong; it was a fad, a period phase, transient. Guitars had no tradition behind them and, let’s face it, no musical virtue that would fit them for Mass, Lara ruminated. And without that, the Church would eventually and inevitably leave them behind. '' “Gloria in excelsis Deo…” ''intoned the priest. '' “Et in terra pax homni—i—bus…” the cantor, invisible far back up with the organ, began to chant as they sang the Gloria. Lara thought to herself that that was a prime example. Who knew how many centuries old the Gloria was, and yet despite a fifty-year revolution of “newer”, more modern things and liturgical innovations, the new things were crumbling and falling behind, and the ancient things were returning, the Latin chant and the organ and the '' Agnus Dei'' and all. The guitars strummed on bravely but with the desperation of something already gone. St. Joseph’s was a large church, but it was still nearly full. She let her eyes rest on the stained glass on the left side of the church and wondered as she often had, whether moss was growing on the far side; it certainly had the faded, greenish, ancient texture that it would if forest grime had accumulated on the panes for a few decades. She knew that wasn’t the case, of course; the few straggly spruce and old maples overhanging the church on that side didn’t come anything like close enough. But fancies of this sort helped her endure dull sermons. The sermons weren’t always dull in their own right, she thought as the congregation seated itself after the Gospel reading. They only sound like it to me because I already know everything they’re saying. One of the disadvantages of being a homeschooled Catholic. People who’ve never learned their faith, on the other hand, would need to hear it and would probably not find it boring. Right now, for instance, young black-headed Father Orlando (who was from Lithuania) was giving an impassioned explanation of the Real Presence. “…but it is His Body and it is His Blood that I consecrate on the altar” (he pronounced it “botty”) “and when I do, when I say those words, it is no longer bread and wine on that altar, it is the Flesh and Blood of Jesus Himself! and this is something we cannot understand, but we know it is true because Jesus told us Himself…” Lara, who could probably have put in the entire definition of transubstantiation, knew it was a good sermon full of meat, but she already knew all this and hearing it again for the umpteenth time was a little…dull. And Summer was making a fuss of herself again and Mom was motioning for Lara to pass her the diaper bag, and Michael was trying to climb over the pew and Donovan was drumming his heels, and she sighed and bent her attention to the task of keeping some kind of order among her younger siblings. Then came the Consecration, and Lara bowed her head and tried to forget that her brother was wiggling back and forth beside her, and concentrated instead on the terrible mystery taking place on the altar. She remembered when she was younger that she had longed to be able to see something, anything, a glow, a shine about the chalice, some sign or manifestation of what was happening at the altar. But now that she was older she knew that wasn’t needed; the good Lord in any case wasn’t about to visit a sinful girl like her with such an extraordinary grace. She He was there, in what looked like bread and wine, and that was good enough. Then she was in the aisle, along with the rest, heading up to receive. It was all too easy to be distracted; the knobbed bosses on the pinnacles of the high altar that made them look like saw blades, her brother Dave in his acolyte’s cassock holding the paten beside the priest, the back of the man in front of her (who swayed from side to side worse than a camel). Then he had received—in his hand, shoving the round Wafer into his mouth like a potato chip—and the priest was in front of her, elevating the Host as he murmered “The Body of Christ” while her brother the altar boy held the bronze disk of the paten underneath in case Our Lord fell. Lara knelt, feeling hard stone under her knees right through her dress, and put out her tongue a little, just enough for the priest to lay the Wafer upon it. After Mass Ronnie came over, wearing his usual odd grin. He was older than her by more than ten years but didn’t look it, with straight reddish-bronze hair and a white, keen, bony face like some kind of cutting implement, sharp and hollow with intense bright eyes. Right now it was relaxed as he traded blunt remarks with Lye, and Lara smiled as she greeted him. She found his conversation interesting. Mrs. Midwinter was nursing Summer while talking away with the old lady behind her. Lara got an odd whiff of mingled earth and smoke. It was a pleasant but peculiar odor, and looking around she found herself face to face with the strange man in brown. She was aware only of two deep and powerful eyes, slow and ancient and filled with thought, and yet with an odd spark of humor running through them. They seemed to be blue and yet had a hazel ring around the pupil, and they gazed down into the bottom of her mind. She started, suddenly aware she had been staring rudely at him for a full minute. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said quickly, but he inclined his head and lifted one hand with a grave smile that said not to worry. “Your name is Lara.” he said. “Why, um, yes, yes it is. Pleased to meet you.” “What does it mean?” Lara was confused. “I don’t understand.” “All names meant something in the beginning, you know. Men don’t name their children with random combinations of sound! The name may have meant something in another tongue, or the name may have melded from a word that meant something, or the meaning may have faded in time and the sounds alone remained.” “But Lara doesn’t mean anything.” said Ronnie. “I mean, Ronnie might have been a worn-down form of Ronald—but Ronald doesn’t mean anything either—does it?” The strange man chuckled. Lara noticed his face for the first time, scraggy with stubble but brown and hard. His age was hard to guess; he seemed youngish but not young, nor old or even middling. It was as if he was between the very concept of age. “Oh, it means something, yes, but not Ronald. You just assume that because that is the only anonym you know. Your names have another meaning, in an older language, spoken now in only a few places on Earth.” “And what do they mean?” Lara and Ronnie both said at once. The strange man paused, gazing at them but not at them; as if they were transparent and he was gazing through them to something far off. “They will tell you themselves, Lara. You will find them out before they find out you, Ronnie. For such is your fate in these last days of the world.” He nodded abruptly. “I must be going. There is so little time….I am sorry. It was a pleasure.” He touched his brow and strode swiftly out of the church. “Wait!” exclaimed Lara as the side door closed behind him. She pushed it open. “What is your name…” Her voice died on her lips. The asphalt walk beside the church, under the old and colorful maples, was empty. Lara scrambled up the great swell of bare rock behind the old maples, while Ronnie hurried around behind the church. There a level walkway ran in a canyon between a mortared retaining wall and the granite blocks of the church’s rear wall. There was no sign of the man in brown. Ronnie joined her on the high brow of stone. It dropped sudden and steep, with some trees and brush, for about 30 feet to Chestnut Street and the dingy dwellings of The Flat. “No sign of him.” Ronnie told her. “Not here either.” Lara replied. “Where could he have gone so fast?” Ronnie didn’t answer, and both fell silent as they looked at the view. The Flat lay spread before them, a level area of poorer families, a nasty place at night by all accounts: a small chunk of inner city a quarter mile wide. The Nameless Hills of Winsted, as Ronnie had called them from the fact that only two of them had names on any map, rose like high rolling waves of orange, grey and dark green. A cold wind roared in their faces: St. Joseph’s sat upon an elevated section of land, called Church Hill in the old annals, and the rocky ridge was one of its’ edges. “When I was a kid, this rock was like Mt. Everest to me.” Lara said. “I was always trying to climb it….and Mom was always scared to death I’d fall.” “I used to think these bumps were fossils.” “You ever try to chisel any?” He chuckled. “Naw. Too much work.” They were quiet for a while. “Where could he have gone?” Lara said again. “Maybe he teleported.” She gave her eyes a little roll. “Riiiight.” “So, what’ve you been doing?” he said, before silence could fall again. “Oh, you know, the…well, you know.” “No, I don’t know.” he said with a straight face. “Job, schoolwork, stuff like that….horseback riding….all sorts of things. I work at McDonald’s, you know. What’s new with you?” “Well, I harvested my tomatos: green. None ripened at all. I had to make pickles. Taking some studies down at the college, too.” “Oh, NW Community? Down on Main St?” He nodded. “Nice. Studying what?” He rumpled his hair. “Well, I’ve always wanted to know about astronomy and just how the stars work and the latest info on planets and all…I’m only just starting.” “Nice.” she said. “I’m going to Thomas More next year. I think. I’ll be studying for a lawyer.” “Good, I’ll need somebody I can trust to get me out of jail.” he joked. “Hey, you guys!” Lye was sticking her head out the door. “Where’d you run off to so quick? Trying to leave me out of the conversation?” The wind blew her long deep-gold hair around her face and she let go of the door to push it back. She wore a red sweater over her skirt. “No, we ran out here so we could talk about superheros.” Ronnie yelled back. “Superheros?” said Lara. “Yeah, we’ve got teleporting mysterious strangers who talk about the meanings of names.” Lilac had come to meet them as they scrambled off the rock. “My name’s pretty obvious.” she observed with a smile. She had a nice rounded sort of small face, with an amused cute way of smiling, and two deep dimples that appeared in her cheeks when she did. There was a slight gap between her front teeth which added to her appearance of looking younger than her 15 years. “Well, even that gets you thinking, you know.” said Ronnie. “I mean, what does lilac mean? I know it’s the name of a flowering bush, but what does it mean? Was it just a random assignation of sounds that seemed to fit that shrub? Or did it once have another meaning entirely? Or could it have been a person’s name before it was applied to the bush, like Myrrha to the myrrh tree?” “What’s that?” “Oh, it was one of those Roman myth-thingys, about some girl turned into a tree.” What dreadful sin had occasioned such a fate he left unsaid. “Okay, study assignment for the week: go home and put your names in the search engine!” laughed Lye. “Can’t.” said Ronnie. “Library’s closed on Sunday.” “That’s all right; I’ll do it for you.” said Lye in a fake-sweet voice. Ronnie didn’t have a computer. “I knew I could count on you.” Ronnie paid her back in the same tone. Both girls rolled their eyes. “Where’s your bike?” said Lye. Ronnie always biked to Mass; ever since they’d known him they had never seen him drive. “Over there, hiding.” he said, pointing to the laurels by the Fatima statue, at the base of the rock swell. “I was gonna walk, but I got lazy and biked instead.” “''Lazy??”'' said Lye incredulously. Pleasant Valley, Ronnie’s home, was several miles off. He only laughed as he biked away. “I am Bell.” she said to herself. It sounded good enough, as it always had, as if she was declaring some great secret. She smiled slightly and serenely as she walked up the stone steps of First Baptist Church beside her father. As recently as last year she had always done this with her father holding her hand, but now that she was 11 she pulled it free every time—at least in public. “I am Bell, daughter of Light.” she whispered. It always delighted her, this name of hers. Her father, Hunter Light, seemed more embarrassed by his magnificent name than proud of it. “Your mother hated it,” he told her once, on one of the rare occasions he spoke of her mother at all. “She wouldn’t even marry me. We lived together for a while…” “And then what happened?” she had said. “Now we don’t.” he replied, and refused to talk further. He never was much for talking, except when he told her stories, of course. Even at 11 she still demanded stories almost incessantly. “Dad, was this church a castle once?” she said now as her dad yanked open the rather stuck blue doors. “Huh?” he said, a little startled by the odd question. “The tower’s all square.” she said. “And the walls are so low and strong, and they’re all stone.” A man in brown dress pants and a very old coat of brown leather, reading the bulletin in the vestibule, turned at these words while her dad was clearly groping for an answer. “A castle would not have big windows, maiden.” he said in a quiet voice. “Or doors so defenseless. No, this has always been a church.” “But it’s all stone.” she objected. “They didn’t want it to burn.” he replied. “Even though the wars were long over when they built it, they built of stone. All the Five Churches of Winsted are stone.” “Why are there Five?” she said. Dad, apparently satisfied the stranger wasn’t going to run off with her, was chatting with the minister, a sallow-skinned man who looked like Jet Li. “The first churches were wood, and called meeting-houses.” the stranger said. “The present ones are only a century or so in age. The Baptists built the great stone church near the library, while the Methodists their bitter foes built the square church down the street from them. The Baptists split, and half of them went off and built this church on the opposite side of town. Then the Catholics raised the mightiest of the Five, St. Joseph’s, and last the Episcopalians built the dead church two doors from it.” “Why did they split? And why is St. Joe’s the mightiest? And why is the other one dead?” “Weighty questions, fair lass!” the man laughed. “I believe they had minister issues. It’s not uncommon for you Protestants. St. Joseph’s is the mightiest because he is the true Church—the Catholic.” “But—aren’t—aren’t you Protestant?” “Nay, lass, I am not.” said the strange man. “Your name is Bell, isn’t it? Do you know the tune of the bells of Winsted?” “No, sir.” The cheery, leather-brown face of the mysterious man grew distant; his odd blue eyes with the hazel band around the pupil seemed to be fixed on something remote. His voice grew deep and hollow, and she fancied it had an echo like the clang of the very bells themselves. '' “Hammers and urns, say the bells of First Church, '' '' When did they close it? say the bells of Methodist’s, '' '' Smite on the heavens, say the bells of St. Joseph’s, '' '' Till they are broken, say the bells of New Baptist, '' '' Come down and play, say the bells of St. James.” '' The minister and Mr. Light had fallen silent after the first words. They remained silent as the strange man drew to a close. He nodded at them, gravely bent down and touched Bell’s hand, and then turned and went out the door. “Isn’t he staying for church?” the minister said, puzzled. “He said he wasn’t Protestant.” said Bell. “Dad? That rhyme, what does it mean?” “It doesn’t have to '' mean'' anything.” her dad said, a little exasperated. “It’s a nursery rhyme.” “I heard something like it.” offered the minister. “Only the bells were from St. Clement and they were saying something about oranges.” “Oranges and '' lemons'', wasn’t it?” Mr. Light said. “Gosh, I haven’t heard that one since my grandpa sang it once.” “I’m gonna look it up.” said Bell gravely. Both men gave her a surprised look. “Library doesn’t open until Tuesday.” her father said gently. “Don’t you have a computer, Hunt?” the minister said, surprised. In the 21st century computers are so common that for someone NOT to have one was bizarre. “I use the computer labs at the college for most of my stuff.” Hunter explained. “Too much security and firewall nonsense, not to mention stupid upgrades every other year.” He snorted. Bell saw some of her friends come in at that moment and headed over to say Hi and exchange a quick squeeze before their families went to their respective pews. Bell saw her dad looking around for her, so she hurried over and they took their usual places halfway up. The church wasn’t very big. Bell glanced around as she always did before service began. The minister was coming toward the sanctuary now but he didn’t look in a hurry. She mentally compared the sloping floor of the semicircular nave to a cereal bowl, and giggled. The pews had lovely carved ends with round flutings she loved to run her hand along, with nice soft velvety cushions of the prettiest red. They all seemed to lean ridiculously back, as if cruising down a hill toward the sanctuary. The ceiling overhead was brown wood paneling, with odd ridges and wedges in four directions, a half dome on each side, and four great white riblike arches forming a square around the center vault, spanning the nave. The sanctuary was small, like a high round stage, the minister in his fine gold-black vestments sitting in the middle and the choir in their red and white robes on rising seats behind him. There were two pianos on left and right, and funny pipes like icicles rising in an inverted crescent above the choir. There were windows, but they didn’t look stained; they looked painted. She wondered what real stained glass looked like. As they rose for the readings, Bell covertly glanced around at her friends and traded secret smiles. They were a close bunch, the small congregation, but then after all there were only 50 people here. The good thing was that over a dozen of them were around her age, with at least another dozen little kids. Maybe that was what the strange man had meant, when he said St. James’ was dead. Maybe there were no children there. The Baptist church didn’t feel dead. They felt like a rather large family. But St. Joseph’s was the mightiest of the Five Churches of Winsted. “Daddy?” she said afterwards. “Can we go see what St. Joseph’s looks like?” “We’re not Catholics, honey.” “Pleeeease? I just want to see what it looks like.” “Well, I suppose it can’t hurt.” he said. “But they’re having their own service right now. We’ll go on a walk and come when nobody can see us.” So they wandered around the green near the church for a little while. The ancient stubby maples that stood here and there along the brick paths still bore glowing red and orange leaves lower down, and Bell smiled in her strange, grave way, and her father looked at her with a fond indulgent smile. Bell felt wonderfully content just to be like this, walking in the park with her dad. There were girls at school who didn’t have '' dads. True, she didn’t have a mom, but she was over at Mrs. Glen’s house so often that didn’t really seem to matter. Sometimes. Sometimes she missed her real mother terribly. She hadn’t seen her in—how many years? It had to be four or five. And she was 11, so that was half a lifetime ago. “You’re going to teach math there someday.” said her father, motioning across the road to the left, where the yellow brick College building stood. “Oh, Dad!” It was an old joke; she hated math. “What time is it?” she asked. “Not even 11:30, honeybuttons.” her dad said, flipping open his cell phone. “Let’s go look at the cemetery.” Where the Baptist church stood, the road called Rt. 8 that came down from Massachusetts and the north split in two. Both forks were one-way, the right-hand fork going south and the left-hand fork coming north. Between them was a broad tongue of level ground, flat-sided where it ended at Main, but tapering suddenly to a point at the place where the road split. This was the Green, hard and grassy, with curving brick paths and benches and green metal-barred trash cans, a bandstand in the center, and a big stone fountain. In the summer it leaked and thin patches of water would flow over the walkway around it, but now it was turned off for the winter and the basin was dry and full of leaves. On the far side of the south-bound fork were close-built store buildings and a restaurant. Then came the bank driveway. Then several queer and ancient houses, square-built and bizarre. Two of them were like twins; or like brothers, for although they bore a similar square flat-roof gable design, the one on the left had a rusty, ageworn look while the one on the right was newly painted. Bell feasted her eyes on those colors. The siding was a very pale lavender-white, almost pastel. The trim in contrast was a lovely deep bluish-purple. Pines stood around it. The other house was bare, save for the big maple in back. The dull red of the trim and the pale cream siding with the grey-brown edging at the corners, coupled with the weird slate tiles and the ornate curling rail of wrought iron that ran around the flat roof, was probably to blame for the impression of rustiness. Between these houses was a circular lawn bisected by a gravel path up which the Lights now walked. Big maples guarded the way. A gravel drive looped in from the street and back out, encircling the lawn, and across this was the old cemetary. The maples were giants, huge rugged guardians with rough grey trunks and naked boughs still trailing some rusty leaves. There was a pine or two farther off. The ground rose steadily. The big maples formed a double row up a sunken grassy drive in the center of the burying ground. The tombstones were all grey, fresh granite grey and old marble grey and weathered sandstone red-grey. Tall stone obelisks pointed at the sky. Weathered-white marble urns with black moss tarnish in the creases stood atop some. One or two plots had weird metal rails around them. At the back the rising ground became sheer, rocks jutting from the orange-brown leaves among the grey stems. It wasn’t very high—she could see houses at the top—but it felt like the barrier at the world’s end. The grass was still green. Some of the maples had a ragged coat or two of tattered orange; no more. She looked beyond the low iron fence that ringed the cemetery. Houses rose up there, the backs of houses, odd networks of unpainted balconies and rails and back stairways behind the store buildings that walled Main St. Seen from behind it had an unnerving effect, like a glimpse of the world’s machinery. “Daddy, can we get out of here?” she said. “I thought you wanted to come here so bad.” “I was curious.” ''And seeing the world from behind wasn’t what I expected, ''she did not add. I’m not ready for that.'' They walked down Main St. Past the bank, and the old townhouses under the Norway maples, and then there was an old fieldstone church, with the gargoyles jutting their stone necks from the corners of the tower and the stone lion on the peak, and the ancient, rust-streaked round stones of the masoned sides. They hadn’t been able to afford cut stone, she suddenly realized. They had to build it themselves. “It looks so old.” she said. Then she noticed the sign out front: ST. JAMES CHURCH. “Why does the youngest of the Five Churches feel like the oldest?” she said. “It is?” her father said a little doubtfully. “How do you know that?” “The weird old guy at church told me.” “Five.” Mr. Light muttered. “First…Methodist….yeah, there are five. Never thought of it before.” “Who was he?” she pressed as they passed under a big green copper maple. A low wall ran beside the sidewalk and the yards behind it were uphill. Two empty houses stood close together at the corner of Oak St. “I don’t know!” he said irritably. “You’re the one who talked to him. I never seen him around.” “He seemed like I knew him.” she murmered. “Or like I ought to.” At that moment they rounded the shadow of the tree and came out in full view of St. Joseph’s, and all other thoughts fled her mind. Where St. James had looked old—and somehow decayed, too, like an old hollow tree—St. Joseph’s looked big. Built on the crest of the low rise east of the Flat, where Main St leaves the clustered shops behind and swings to the south a little, the great steeple sprang at the clouds like a massive blade of stone. The peak of the roof and the pinnacles that edged it, the tan-painted carven stonework and the massive blocks of grey granite it was built of, the great flight of stone steps in front, the dark-brown wood doors, and most of all the statue of a brown-robed man bearing a staff that gazed down from high above the huge rose window, took her breath. “Oh—Dad—it’s magnificent!” she gasped. “It’s certainly a grand place.” her dad observed. The 10:30 Mass was over and only one or two cars still remained parked in front. A steep lawn faced the street, but climbing up behind it from the left a drive passed in front of the stone steps and curved to meet Oak St as the road descended down the right(east) side of the church. Bell and her father walked up Oak Street until the drive joined, and went along this under the huge roots of the belfry tower. The drive bent around right and crossed in front of the church. They climbed the worn steps and Bell ducked under one of the black pole handrails, just for the fun of it. She pulled open one of the huge, square-panelled doors. A priest in flowing green vestments was chatting animatedly with a few old ladies in the vestibule. One younger man was reading a bulletin. Bell eyed them a little nervously but nobody paid them any attention; which was a surprise in and of itself. At First Baptist any strangers were usually welcomed and greeted half to death as everybody felt obliged to make them feel at home. But she was grateful at any rate and pushed open the swinging doors to the main church. The first thing that struck her was the sheer size of the place. It looked stupendous. Soaring vaults in white and gold. Stiff wood pews with no cushions and with odd hinged bars at the bottom where your feet go, and as there were dull red cushions on these she guessed they were for kneeling. There was a sanctuary half as big as her church’s entire nave. Against the back wall and illumined by a lamp or two, was a high detached structure of spires and pinnacles with odd and beautiful projections on each side, giving them a sawlike appearance, and above the topmost pinnacle a gigantic picture of the Risen Christ. Even the stand-alone altar was more decorated and—well, fit for worship—than anything in her church. “It feels—different—in here.” Bell said. “It’s a church.” her dad said. “No, it…” It really does feel like God is here, even with nobody in the church and no congregation to form The Church, ''was what she felt, but could not say. ''In our church it feels more like—like a Bible study group. Fellowship, community. Not like this. '' “Is God right here?” she said. It sounded awfully loud in the empty church. “The Catholics worship the same God we do.” her dad said vaguely. “The answer to your question is yes.” Both of them turned around. The young man who had been reading the bulletin stood in the aisle, in the act of tying a scarf around his neck. He was slender, with an odd, sharp, bony face, bronze-red hair and direct eyes. “Yes, He does live here.” the youth said in a low voice. He came up to Bell and pointed. “There. In the tabernacle.” “What’s a taber—“ “The gold box.” he answered. “Directly under the crucifix. With the red candle in front of it.” “But…but I don’t understand.” said Bell, a little confused. “How does He fit?” “We’re from First Baptist.” Mr. Light explained. “She wanted to see what it looked like inside here.” “Welcome.” the young man said simply. Not ''get out of here, you’re heretics. “How does He fit? Well, it’s not like He’s crouching inside It’s a little hard to explain….” “Yeah, and we don’t exactly want to get into an argument.” said Mr. Light. “True. I’ll just say that His Body is physically present there in a mystical way, and let it go at that.” “Wow.” said Bell. “What’s your name?” Mr. Light asked. The young man gave a swift smile that wrinkled his whole face. Bell thought he looked nice. “I’m Ronnie. Ronnie Wendy. And you?” “I’m Bell.” she said a little shyly. “Hunter Light.” her father introduced himself. Ronnie’s eyes lit up. “Light as in g-H-t, or i-t-ee?” “Real light, not Miller-Lite.” Bell said tartly, and Ronnie laughed so hard he bent double trying to keep it silent. He sobered quickly. “Very interesting name.” he said thoughtfully. “Can you tell me,” said Bell, “why did they close it?” Ronnie’s face became as still as stone. “Say the bells of Methodist’s.” he muttered. “I wasn’t aware anyone else in Winsted had even heard of it. Found it in a copy of an old newspaper in the library collection—from around 1930, I think. Where’d you hear it?” “A guy at church said it to me this morning.” “Really.” said Ronnie. “What sort of guy?” “Um, kind of an oldish guy, kind of weird…” “In brown? Blue ancient eyes? Old leather coat?” “Yeah! Have you met him, too?” Ronnie nodded. “I’d give a lot to talk to him again.” he said wistfully. “But what did they close?” “I don’t know.” murmered Ronnie. Brooke Pond smiled as she tore off ten raffle tickets for old Bill the bike man. Her smilers hurt because she’d been doing it for the last hour or so. But the Winsted United Methodist church needed the money, what with all the repairs that had started cropping up the last year, and you really couldn’t ask the little old ladies to man the tables all the time. So she did her best to be cheerful and encourage people to buy more tickets, even if most of the people she was smiling at were old men in every shape and size. Now and again someone more interesting would come down the narrow wood stairs on her left—she sat facing the Thrift Shop room—and one or two of her friends came as well, so it wasn’t a total waste. She knew most of them from the congregation; small as it was, it was far from dying. But quite a few of them, like old Pa Zimmerman, weren’t even Methodist but from the Catholic church down the way; or even of no denomination at all, like Mrs. Hamilton of the eagle face. But it was, after all, a “community” meatball dinner, and as Pastor Miller always said, you teach by example, and maybe some of them will show up here on Sunday. She rather doubted it; there was Ronnie, for instance, one of the sharpest Catholics she’d ever met, debating about the Eucharist with the groundskeeper between bites; she didn’t see him becoming Methodist any time soon. “Don’t you want a break, dear?” said old Mrs. Pine, resting a hand on Brooke’s shoulder. “I’ve already finished eating, so why don’t you run along and get yourself something?” Brooke fancied, as she always did, that the old woman was really made of paper and thin cloth; she had such a frail, parchment look to her. But she accepted the relief gladly and headed inside the church basement. It was a square room, not very large, with a stage at the far end (a table standing thereon with the raffle prizes), and folding tables in rows. The spaghetti and meatball trays were covered and steamed gently. The tables were mostly full. Taking a plate Brooke smiled gently as she looked around at the chattering people. She loved times like these. Taking two meatballs and some noodles she hunted around until she found an empty seat. A man in an ancient leather coat hitched his chair aside for her with a murmered apology and went on eating. He had so much grated cheese on his spaghetti the sauce was almost invisible. She helped herself to some from the depleted bowl of grated cheese nearby—though she took far less than he had—and began happily eating. “Your name is Brooke.” she heard a voice say distinctly in her ear. Looking quickly around she saw only the lean-faced man in the brown coat, but he was not paying her any attention. The people at the table behind her were engrossed in their own conversation. Puzzled, she turned back to her plate. “As round as an apple, as deep as a cup,” the voice said again. She spun her head sharply and met the gaze of the man in the brown coat, even as he finished, “yet all ma’ lord’s horses canna’ draw it up.” “I…beg your pardon?” she said, mystified. “My pardon you have, though you have done nothing to be pardoned.” he answered. Brooke gave a sudden snort of laughter. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean that!” she exclaimed. “What’s all that about apples and cups?” “I was asking you.” he replied. “Well, there is an apple tree outside,” she said, more perplexed than ever. He rolled his eyes. They were very old eyes, blue merging into amber, and she suddenly felt very small and stupid. “That was a riddle, wasn’t it.” she stated. “Do you have the answer?” he said quietly. “Round as a…deep…cannot draw it up…Isn’t that a well?” The strange scraggly face lit up like a child’s. “Yes!” he cried. “It’s a well! Well, well, well, if it isn’t a well!” His laughter, wheezing and cracked though it was, was infectious and Brooke joined in. “What’s your name?” she said when she stopped. The strange ancient eyes looked into hers. Deep and powerful and a little reproving, they somehow made her feel as if she had committed a trespass. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” she said. “You have already received my pardon.” he answered. “I don’t come here very often, as a fact. I have work to do elsewhere. But now…things are, well—“ The loudspeaker gave a wild squawk before conveying the pastor’s voice, cutting off the stranger’s words. Brooke turned and gazed with attention, as she always did when announcements were being made. Pastor Miller, a very old man with thinning white hair, tired blue eyes behind glasses, and a face like a sagging turtle, began by saying how grateful he was they were all here and how he hoped they would enjoy the raffle, after which Mrs. Hill took over the mike and began the drawing. A large stooping old woman, she had a great deep gloomy voice that sounded as if she were auctioning funeral plots, and a ponderous frowning face to match it. Brooke glanced over at her peculiar table companion, intending to ask him if he’d gotten his tickets, and realized the chair was empty. His plate lay on the table, a strand of cheese-spiked noodle still wound about the plastic fork. Frowning Brooke swept the hall with her eyes, but he was gone. “I will have need of you, child of the streams,” she heard him say, mixed somehow with the babble of voices. “The Road is returning.” “Who are you?” she said to no one, to the unseen speaker. She heard no answer.